by Liz Seccuro
5) I have no opinion about Hudson Millard. I remember he couldn’t save me or help me and I tried desperately to get to him.
I have a million other details, but you will understand if I want to keep them to myself. I want to [e]ffect change at the University and by sharing these things with you, the perpetrator, it may give them power to squelch my cause.
I simply suppose I do not know why we are addressing this now, except for the fact that it’s part of your recovery and I cannot fault you for working on yourself. I think in recovery they don’t really teach you about how your admission now causes turbulence in the victim/survivor’s life. From my discussions with people in the program, I hear that addicts on your “step” just want forgiveness, neatly tied up in a bow. Know this: you and I will never be friends. I forgave you long ago. But I don’t wish to keep delving into this, and now, I have no choice. I did not get to choose being raped and having my virginity taken from me so brutally. Now, I don’t get to choose having this wound reopened. Everything is on your terms. I have a small child who needs me to be happy and calm and serene and this is not really going well for me. I am angry that your account is so very different than mine, which is burned into my memory as if it happened yesterday. But, then again, you were a heavy user at that time and I will not trust your account and [will] stay true to my own. I was a mere child of 17, but not stupid. And, I was rather sober.
Nor do they prepare you for the consequences, if any. This is very difficult for me. I feel raped and betrayed a second time. I have the most difficulty in your careful choice of words—there’s a whole lot of PR spin, or so it seems. “Harm,” “what I did to you,” et al. don’t really feel like coming clean to me. I suppose it’s a difficult word to utter or even write, for you.
There. It is done. I have told him he’s forgiven, which he is, and I have the feeling that’s all he’s really after. He doesn’t want to know about me, who I am, who I was, who I have become because of and despite what he did to me. I wish I could better express how hurtful and frightening it is to hear from him, and tell him how painfully wrong he is about what happened.
I crawl into bed beside my husband, where I begin to cry. I tell him everything about the e-mails. Mike props himself up on one elbow, stares intently at me, his expression changing from sympathy to anger to fear in the time it takes for me to sputter out what is happening. He holds me and breathes with me. I look up at him and see tears in his eyes. Beebe has hurt him as well. Once Mike falls asleep, I get out of bed and pace, unable to sleep, as usual. I have a hunch Beebe knows that we are at an impasse and that he is doing more harm than good. I step into my office, not an hour later that November night.
He has fired back.
Dear Liz,
I want to make clear that I’m not intentionally minimizing the fact of having raped you. I did. And I understand how our now differing accounts have evoked an angry conflict within you.
He says he doesn’t know what more to say. He takes full responsibility, and is not trying to convince me of anything.
It seems that I’m actually doing more harm than good, which is not what I want to do. This wall in our dialogue saddens me. I hope it is only temporary … If you have any further suggestions, please let me know.
Best to You Always,
Will
I feel validation, but also deep pain. I have lost all desire to find out who this person is, and if I can’t trust his version of events, I can’t trust anything he says. I am broken. In this moment I do not know what the future will hold, nor how long the road ahead will be.
CHAPTER 2 High Ambitions
When I headed off to the University of Virginia in 1984, I am certain there was no more excited student in my matriculating class than I. The valedictorian of my all-Catholic girls’ school, I had been accepted to several good schools. My parents were extremely proud of me: I was going to be the first in my family to attend college. The University of Virginia had not been my parents’ first choice, since it was far away from our home in New York. I had never even seen the campus. But I had decided that I wanted to be a writer, and Virginia’s English Department was ranked number one in the country at that time. Besides, I reasoned that it was the most practical option, since as a state school it was one of the less expensive choices. As it was, I waitressed all summer at a local country club to make extra money.
I had had a happy childhood. I was born to a Long Island teenager on December 23, 1966, but was given up for adoption to the New York Foundling Hospital by my birth mother, a student at New York University. My birth father was married to another woman, and this girl wasn’t ready to have a child on her own. I was adopted by my parents, Barbara and Bob Schimpf, four days shy of my first birthday. They brought me home as an early Christmas gift to themselves, and I got a new birth certificate: I was named Elizabeth Anne Schimpf.
My family was modest in means, but rich in personality. We lived in an airy, sprawling apartment in the Fleetwood section of Mount Vernon, New York, in Westchester County, a heavily Italian American blue-collar bedroom community of New York City. My dad was a transit worker with the MTA, first as a bus driver, then a dispatcher, then as a major accident investigator. He was a self-made man and had worked since he was a child, when he sold peanuts at Yankee Stadium; his mother and grandmother laundered the players’ uniforms. My mom was beautiful and stylish, with a sarcastic and biting wit. As the eldest of four children raised in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, she had been largely responsible for raising her younger siblings, for my grandmother was agoraphobic and an alcoholic. My mother never drank, although she did work—ironically, as an executive assistant at the Seagram Company.
My early years are a blur of good memories—summer trips to the Jersey Shore, vacations at Disney World in Florida, parties at my parents’ house and their friends’ houses where the kids would all fall asleep in piles of coats while our parents danced the nights away in double-knit polyester bell bottoms and jumpsuits. (This may have been the seed of my career as an event planner, as I was pressed into service to pass hors d’oeuvres at my parents’ parties.) On nights when my parents left me with trusted babysitters, I would beg them to let me stay up late, so I could practice the dance moves from Dance Fever and Solid Gold, both big hits on television at the time, the era of disco. I was already taking dance lessons by then, too. When I was three years old, a doctor had noticed unevenness in my gait and a certain clumsiness, so he literally prescribed ballet lessons.
I eventually became more serious about dance, practicing every day after school and on Saturdays. Dance gave me a great deal of confidence. Always a fairly shy child, through ballet I learned to hold my head high. There were gorgeous costumes, makeup, flowers at performances, and curtsies at curtain calls. I made great friends, and backstage we would giggle until we cried and tell each other ghost stories in the dark dressing rooms. And, most important, I was good at dance. I had “the line,” as the late ballet master George Balanchine would say: that alignment of the neck, the spine, the legs, the turnout of the hips, even the hands and toes, that was everything in dance. I pushed myself extra hard, trying to develop perfect technique to go along with the perfect line. When I was thirteen, my teacher recommended me for a summer of study at the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow. The Bolshoi was the best company on earth. But soon after preparations were made, my trip was canceled. The United States was boycotting the 1980 Moscow Olympics, and it was considered too dangerous for me as an American to go to Moscow. This was a great disappointment. I started to lose my interest in dance, which now seemed like less of a dream and more of a chore. I had hit puberty, and I began to gain two or three pounds every few months. A knee injury sidelined me at fourteen. I knew I would never become a professional ballerina, and I quit altogether.
In high school, I turned the focus I had given to ballet to schoolwork and socializing. I dated a bit, but not seriously. I was a virgin, which was not uncommon in my set of friends. We were at Catholic scho
ol and took our religion seriously, believing for the most part that sex was best saved for marriage, or at the very least for someone we truly loved. Mostly, I spent time with my girl friends, and at our small school, we were a close-knit group. I was a straight-A student, played the lead in many school plays, and was a member of the student council, swim team, math club, yearbook staff, and cheerleading squad. I also became heavily involved in public speaking. Like dance, it was a way to express myself. I became state champion one year and a nationally ranked speaker in many categories, including Original Speech, Dramatic Interpretation, and Debate.
I had worked hard to get into college, and I was thrilled about going to UVA. Ever the perfectionist, I made multiple checklists as I readied myself for the trip down to Charlottesville, going through them with military precision. It was a hot Sunday in August when I crammed into the family car with my parents and most of my old and new belongings to head south. My best friend, Meg, was going to Trinity College in Washington, D.C., and was leaving at the same time, so our parents drove the same approximate speed. We spent that night at a hotel in the District to say good-bye to Meg, after which my parents and I journeyed on to Charlottesville. I felt good knowing that although I would be far from home, Meg would only be a two-and-a-half-hour drive away, if I needed her.
When I finally did arrive at my new home, I was struck by all the gorgeous red and white Georgian brick buildings, the expanses of greenery both on campus and off, the wildflowers and the vistas of the mountains in the distance. There were so many attractive and tanned students and families running about downtown that it seemed the small town would just burst from all of the action. I was excited about all of the new people to meet and classes to take. Once there and checked into our hotel, my parents and I were able to take the college tour we had never taken and learn about the university beyond the glossy brochure.
The University of Virginia, arguably one of the finest public universities in the United States, is in Charlottesville, Virginia, nestled in the foothills of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains. Chartered by Thomas Jefferson in 1819, it opened six years later. It is referred to as Jefferson’s “Academical Village,” a term he coined himself, envisioning a private, sequestered village where students and teachers would live together surrounded by beauty. The centerpiece of the university is the Rotunda, the original academic headquarters that sits at the head of the Lawn, a vast expanse of green that serves as the jewel of the university’s physical plant. (The Rotunda you see today is a replica, as the original was destroyed in a fire in 1895.)
The great Lawn is lined by ten Pavilions, and a professor from each area of study lives with his or her family in that place of honor. The Pavilion Gardens, which echo the Georgian architectural style, are frequent gathering spots for parties and events for students and professors alike. I think this is how Mr. Jefferson would have wanted it.
Another legacy from Mr. Jefferson, and a big reason the university appealed to me, is its Honor Code. Under the single sanction Honor Code, those found lying, cheating, or stealing at the university are brought before the Honor Committee and, if found guilty by a trial of their peers, are expelled. There is no other punishment such as suspension or probation—expulsion is the only choice if you are found guilty. I served as an Honor Educator, and most of the cases I saw involved plagiarism and “over-the-shoulder” cheating. The Honor Code does not extend to more serious criminal offenses such as assault, rape, stalking, or murder. I liked that the Honor Code reinforced the idea of the Academical Village as a community of trust, where the goal of each individual who signed the pledge was to be not only a good student but an ethical person as well. Also impressive to me was the way students really ruled themselves and were responsible for their own successes and failures.
The university admitted only white male students as undergraduates until 1960, and women weren’t fully admitted to all schools as undergraduates until 1970. At the time of my matriculation, almost 70 percent of students were “in state”—from Virginia. Out-of-states, like me, paid a much higher rate of tuition.
Some say that the University of Virginia, although a public institution, is elitist. Critics point to the special terminology used, which differs from most collegiate vernacular. At Virginia, there is no “campus”; the university has “Grounds.” You are not a freshman or a sophomore; you are “first year,” “second year,” etc. You don’t drink “beer”; you imbibe “the usual.” And, God forbid you should refer to your fraternity as a “frat.” There was a saying “If you call your fraternity a ‘frat,’ what do you call your country?” Crude, yes. But it marked what some would call the tradition of being a Wahoo. “Wahoo,” or “ ’Hoo,” is the name given to any student or alum of the university. (A Wahoo is also a fish that purportedly drinks three times its body weight, although the university denies any link, and the official name of our sporting teams is the Cavaliers.)
The unique character of the university was especially evident at the Cavaliers’ football games. Where other schools have spectators cheering in jeans, sweatshirts, and face paint, we Wahoos would show up looking as though we were on our way to a garden party, which we usually were, after the games. Men wore sport coats and blue-and-orange-striped rep ties. For women, floral Laura Ashley dresses (at least in the mid-1980s) were considered de rigueur. Members of fraternities and sororities would all sit together in a show of Greek spirit and oneness. On game days, pledges would be sent to Scott Stadium to reserve whole sections for their houses.
The Foxfield Races, held in the fall and spring, were even bigger than football games for the university, and the whole city of Charlottesville. It was a non-issue whether or not you would attend. Foxfield, held on grounds in Albemarle County, is a respectable steeplechase meet on the horse circuit. We would break out our fanciest dresses and hats for the occasion, and the fraternity or sorority members with the biggest cars, trucks, or Jeeps would be elected to drive over and host the tailgate parties. Some houses would be decorated with blankets, silver candelabra, stemware, and flatware. You would see buffets of spiral hams, cheeses, fruit platters, biscuits, and serious desserts. People would work for weeks on their Foxfield tailgate presentations, with astoundingly professional results. Foxfield was serious business for horse aficionados, but students would joke about never seeing a horse, since drunken antics and fashion took center stage. One could see male students urinating on cars, girls vomiting in trash cans, and lots of hangovers and sunburn by day’s end. Back then, the cops turned a blind eye to the underage drinking, but one needed only look at the long lines at the portable toilets to see how much students were imbibing.
Social life at the university revolved around Greek life. On any given Saturday or Sunday morning, one could walk down Rugby Road, the epicenter of the Greek revival mansions that housed the fraternities, and smell the stench of stale beer and bourbon, body odor, vomit, and fried food. In 1984 there were thirty-eight fraternities and sixteen sororities on Grounds. Those who were not Greek were known as GDIs, or “goddamn independents.” For many, belonging to a house was the ultimate goal, and rush, the process by which new members were chosen for houses, was as complicated as any political campaign. Fraternity rush was held weeks after arrival on Grounds, and sorority rush was held at the beginning of the spring semester, in January. For the men it meant drinking Herculean amounts of alcohol while trying to find where to fit in—it also helped to know brothers from back home or from prep school, or to be active in a sport. For the girls, sorority rush was all about appearances—what you looked like and what you wore. Connections still mattered for the girls, but mostly connections to men. If your boyfriend belonged to one of the more desirable fraternities, then you could get the other girls invited to a mixer, thereby cementing your bid to a more desirable house. The rush process lasted weeks, until Bid Day, when representatives of each house would come to the dorms, envelopes in hand, to announce new members and kidnap them for a night of debauchery. Once you made it int
o a fraternity or a sorority, you were a pledge, which signified the time period before one was formally initiated as a brother or sister. Pledging was hard work. Men would go through periods of sleep deprivation, or sleeping on cold, wet floors and doing the bidding of the older brothers. They would undergo drinking contests, and some houses were associated with rumors of pledges being branded, forced to fornicate with animals, and being stripped naked and tied to trees for entire nights. Some men would be kidnapped, taken to neighboring colleges, and made to find their way back to Charlottesville without any money or transportation. Girls had it slightly easier, but were still woken up in the middle of the night to attend parties at crazy hours, made to parade around Grounds with sanitary pads taped to their foreheads, charged with stealing items from fraternity houses, and drilled on all manner of sisterhood songs. The pledge traditions were extreme, and sometimes cruel, but no one ever complained or got into trouble. Pledges would do anything to conform and belong, and it seemed obvious that the university would have stepped in to stop it if anyone were actually harmed.
But it was also clear that the administration turned a blind eye to the sacred traditions of the Greek system. The lion’s share of alumni support came from Greek alumni. Who would want to mess with that legacy?
My first few weeks at school were idyllic. Everything seemed wonderful and exciting, if a tad daunting. It had been hard to say good-bye to my parents, but college was a new adventure, not only for me, but for my family. My dorm, my new home, was “cinderblock chic.” There was no central air conditioning to relieve us from the heat of the Shenandoah Valley in August. We had one communal bathroom on our floor, which housed about sixty girls, and it was in a constant state of mess given our schedules in those first frenzied weeks—trash cans overflowed, shaving cream dotted the tiles in the shower stalls, toilet paper was frequently in need of a refill and toothpaste scummed the basins. My roommate, a bruiser of a girl named Alice, was a soccer player who missed her boyfriend back home in Pittsburgh. We spent virtually no time together, as she was always at soccer practice when not in class. Weekends, she visited her boyfriend. This was a terrific arrangement for me, because it meant I basically had a room to myself. As an only child, that was all I had ever known.